A short digression on the man on the sidewalk at 2 am
There is a man, on the sidewalk, at 2 am. There is man alone in the ink. There a man alone, a ballerina on cracks, dragging across concrete. There is a man studying the subtle variances, grades, and geological makeup of what supports him. there is a man walking on the sidewalk at 2 am and the same man returns like a ghost, but with meaning, property plus work plus a misplaced endearment. There again at 2 pm. and the eyes are down, studious, pedantic if someone were to ask about that particular strip of land. but why should they? His eyes down, studious, "i remember that crack." Then someone comes along. Some little nobody, who is somebody, but outside orbit. Eyes meet in territorial conflict. who will step aside? no one, because it is only the steps below that deem rights. an instant of nervous tension ended with a step. back to the delusion that it is all your's, and another step proves what a backglance denies. he was the only one around. no matter how many footprints. he is the only one around.